I didn’t tell you about my dream with Julian Vanchez, did I?
It happened a few weeks ago. My dream about Julian Vanchez.
Julian Vanchez is holding a flute of champagne and shouting at the man sitting across from him. They are at a dim-lit restaurant, chewing dinner. They are both writers of well-repute. Patrons are contorted into positions where they are able to listen closely to their talk. It is difficult to tell if they are bothered about having their dinner interrupted or if they are simply nosy.
I am watching, but not for long. I am yanked from the restaurant to a room that has an island garden growing in the center. There are two beds placed diametrically opposite each other in two corners of the room. In one of the beds, Julian Vanchez is lying down, wooden with anxiety. I am seated on the second bed.
I am waiting.
There is a noise like gravel being flung on a tin roof. The stars have clattered down and the moon has bashed its face against window. Un-nerved, I gesture at Julian Vanchez, who has his eyes squeezed tight shut. He knows something that I do not yet know.
I ask the silent walls, Who is Julian Vanchez? The air is gritty with waiting.